


Mine By Right

by Quarkitty



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Eye Trauma, Forced Oral Sex, Implied Incest, M/M, Ramsay is his own warning, Rape/Non-con Elements, basements are inherently scary, cragislist goes wrong, eyefucking, implied boltoncest, roose bolton has a fursuit i dont make the rules, secret santa gift
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-24 06:34:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13208031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quarkitty/pseuds/Quarkitty
Summary: Roose Bolton just wants a tidy home and a son that isn't an embarrassment. Ramsay Bolton just wants a place for his dick to go into. Theon Greyjoy just wants to buy an inexplicably cheap Playsation on Craigslist. We all can't get what we want, sorry.





	Mine By Right

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crookedneighbour](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedneighbour/gifts).



> This is my secret Santa gift for crookedneighbor! I hope you enjoy it, I enjoyed writing it of course! <3 Croptop Ramsay 4E.

Mine By Right

Roose dragged his thumb across the candleholder and lifted the fingerprint of dust up to his nose. He had asked Ramsay to clean the basement, but of course all Ramsay did was throw everything in a corner and wipe his dirty socks across the table instead of dusting. Exhaling, quiet enough for only the cobwebs to hear, Roose lowered the brass candleholder down on the mahogany table and pressed his thumbs against his eye sockets, rubbing the thin skin gently.

The Bolton’s basement was cold concrete, the unfinished dirt floor was always damp even during a drought. Yet, Roose thought to himself as he doused a cloth in wood cleaner, there was no shame in keeping it pristine. Clean basement, clean chamber, clean mind. He leaned over the table and cleaned in tight clockwise circles.

Tonight his bastard son had some things to learn and apologies to do.

A loud rumble from upstairs, not unlike an erratic kicking of a newborn mule, broke the comforting silence. Speaking of, Roose mused to himself, pocketing the cloth into his back pocket. He pulled his jacket buttons closer together across his sweater and straightened his shoulders.

“Ramsay?” He called upstairs. His voice did not raise as much as it projected, not so much louder but merely larger. The thuds stopped for a brief moment before continuing again. Roose waited a moment, counting in multiples of three before heading up the stairs, giving the boy a chance to respond one more time. “Ramsay?” He repeated against the door, knuckles poised to knock. “I am in the basement.” The thudding lapsed and Roose felt the weight of Ramsay shuffling towards the door. He opened it wide, slight out of breath and rosy cheeked. Roose winced at the overpowering stench of body spray, too pungent and strong for the close confines.

Ramsay smiled wide, the brand of grin that Roose had only previously seen in woodcuts of bog-creatures and foul smelling demons. “Hey, uh, I have someone over so,” Ramsay licked his lips, chewing on the corner of his chapped, dry mouth. He coughed loudly. “So, I’ll talk to you later.” Before he could close the door, Roose stuck his foot out, blocking it from slamming shut.

“What are you wearing?” Roose lowered his glare down Ramsay’s bulky body. With shoulders like an overfed ox, Ramsay was built like a sculptor who ran out of patience. He was angular and hard, with great big chunks taken out of his marble form. Besides this, Ramsay rarely dressed to his body type. He stuffed himself into stretchy fabrics two sizes too small and allowed his shirts to ride up past his stomach without a care. Today he was wearing cheap pink imitation velour, the balding patches of rough fabric stood out on his elbows and chest. Roose flicked Ramsay’s trademark earring—a red stone in the shape of a blood drop. Flinching, Ramsay put a hand up this earring and checked it was still in place.

“Nothing. Okay. Later.” He attempted to close the door again, pushing against Roose’s shoe.

A muffled sniffle from the other room piqued Roose’s interest.

“And who is the guest?”

Ramsay coughed again, stalling, wiping his coconut sized fists against his sweaty forehead. “Uh, we just stopped over so I could grab something real quick.” Roose pushed back Ramsay with the heel of his hand and drifted towards the living room. He walked with purpose, pushing back his hair behind his ears. Peaking past a corner, he spied a disheveled young man with large eyes and even larger dark circles underneath.

“Oh um, hi,” The young man raised a hand in greeting, immediately shoving it back into his jeans pockets to fiddle with a pack of cigarettes. “I’m here for the Cragislist ad.” As Roose formed a nonplussed answer in his throat Ramsay burst into the room, wedging himself between the two. He slapped the man’s back in a rough yet friendly manner.

“Yeah, yeah, Theon was it? Don’t worry, the Playstation is upstairs, I’ll get it for you. We agreed on how much?”

“Play…station?” Roose interjected, tilting his nose towards the floor.

Ramsay spun on his heel and faced his father. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll uh, just don’t worry about it.” He closed in over Theon, muttering numbers under his breath. Despite himself, Roose found himself slightly amused by the situation. As far as he was aware, Ramsay didn’t own such a thing. There was something nefarious behind his playful demeanor. They were, after all, related. Colorless eyes of storm and silence was not the only inherited trait.

“Oh Ramsay, I believe I moved that to the basement. Come, I’ll show you where I put it.” He reached behind his son’s canyon of a back, dragging his fingers down his spine (or the approximation of where it should be). Immediately Ramsay tensed up, losing his domineering confidence. He gazed at his father, mouth slightly agape in confusion, trying not to let his new visitor see.

“The basement?” Ramsay repeated, barely above a whisper.

Roose merely nodded and let the boys towards the basement door. He stretched a hand across the wooden frame. “Solid oak,” he told the young visitor. “I had all the wooden trimmings refurnished last spring.” Theon whistled in appreciation.

The three descended down the stairs to the basement. It was dim, with only some substandard lighting from an overhead lamp. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Theon scanned the room. It was dingy, smelled vaguely coppery, and the walls were only slightly moldy. But yet, a fifty dollar Playstation 4 was too good a deal to pass up. So what if it was covered in spiders? It was nothing he couldn’t just clean off. Trying not to breathe in the stale air, Theon dug his boot into the dirt floor, crunching a stone under his heel. Boxes and bins stuffed past closure crowded one corner of the room. For such an immaculate home, the basement betrayed the upstairs. An antique table sat in the center of the basement. It was intricate, perhaps in need of a good oiling, but otherwise compelling and beautiful. Its reddish tint was uneven in spots, as if it were stained again and again.

Roose pulled his lips up into a smile, or a grimace? Theon found the man’s face difficult to read. It hardly moved, even when he spoke he held his lips close together. When he blinked, which was rare, it lasted a touch longer than it ought to.

“Ramsay.” Roose hushed. “I asked you to clean the basement. As usual, you only made the situation worse. And yet, you bring a strange boy who smells like dollar store cologne into my home.” Ramsay fiddled with the ends of his long black hair, the split ends frayed and knotted. He looked away from his father at his muddy tennis shoes. Before Theon could wonder what the situation was escalating towards, Roose drew his wrist back and slapped Ramsay across the face. Grabbing his son by his pudgy cheeks and neck, he pulled Ramsay’s face towards him. His skin flushed from light pink to bold red, blood vessels panicked and angry. “Whatever your plan was for this boy, it is mine by right.” Ramsay nodded, eyes daring not to break contact with Roose’s. “You are little more to me than spilled seed.” He reminded his son, planting a kiss on the top of his head, oily hair sticking to Roose’s lips.

Running was an option, Theon clutched his hands against his chest, running was a good option. He turned and tried to flee, scarecrow legs flopping in every direction except behind him. Five steps into his gamble, Ramsay grabbed Theon by the legs, throwing him towards the ground. Theon toppled, his face hitting the floor before his body. He bit his own tongue on the way down and yelped in pain.

Roose pulled a svelte chair out from behind the mahogany table. He sat down and pat his lap gently. “Bring him to me,” he commanded.

Theon screamed. He beat his weak fists against Ramsay’s back, but Ramsay merely lifted him up like a broken doll. All his effort amounted to rain drops against a tin roof. “Fuck, fuck!” He wailed. “What the fuck! God damn, god, let go you fucker!” Ramsay covered his mouth with his sweaty hand. He pressed two fingers into Theon’s mouth, gagging him. Theon sputtered, coughing spit across Ramsay’s hand.

Thrown at the ground at Roose’s feet, Theon stared up at his captors. He curled in on himself, pulling his knees up to his chest in a tired attempt to disappear. Gingerly, Roose reached down and raked his hands through Theon’s unruly hair. Against his own will, Theon shivered, his bones rattling against his skin.

“Ramsay, go into the box the furthest to the left and retrieve it,” Roose beckoned. Hesitating, Ramsay walked to the mess on the other side of the basement. He scanned the boxes for what Roose was looking for, occasionally glancing back at Theon shaking on his knees.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Theon stared out from Roose between his fingertips—a child afraid of ghosts. “I’ll just leave and I won’t come back, I’ll pretend this never happened, just don’t touch me.” Carefully, he attempted rising to his feet. It was cut short by Roose’s shoe upon his shoulders, forcing Theon back down to where he belonged.

Pressing down harder, Roose watched his victim squirm. “Close your eyes,” he whispered to Theon. Theon chewed on his swollen cheek, he had fallen harder than he expected. Agreeing, out of fear more than compliance, he shut his eyes and took several deep breaths.

Ramsay lifted something from the box, carrying it over to his father. As if he could hear what his eyes were blinded to, Theon listened carefully. All he could hear was the dragging of feet. Beyond his own senses, he felt the room grow colder, as if someone had snuffed out a fire and all that was left inside of him was weepy curls of smoke. Roose shuffled his body around, the fabrics of his clothes rubbing against each other in soft spats. When he spoke again, his voice sounded far away.

“Open them.” Roose spoke. Theon obeyed.

He gasped, damning himself for letting his fear show.

Roose was a wolf. His eyes slowly adjusted to the light once more. Roose was half a wolf, cut off at the head and shoulders. With his arms folded against his chest, Roose peered down through the slit holes of a taxidermy wolf head at Theon. The sharp fangs grinned. A red tongue hung out lazily. If it could froth, it would bubble with anticipation. In spite of the lustrous fur, the nit and grit of the taxidermy was poorly done. The nose hung loose, split in several parts like overproved bread. It smelled of blood and sweat, musky and sexual, the heat of a succubus ready to gorge himself.

“Suck,” was all Roose said, leaning back in his chair, the wolf mouth looked ready to howl.

Theon dared not move. His shallow breathing quickened. A cold knife was against his throat. How long had Ramsay been behind him? He swallowed. The dryness of his throat was not optimal at a time like this. Quietly as a lover’s sigh, Ramsay whispered to Theon, “Do it.” The tension between skin and blade grew, the pressure building. He nodded, eyes shut again. Maybe if he kept closing and opening them, the room would fade away into another haze of nightmarish frenzy.

Moving his fingers towards Roose’s pants, Theon unbuttoned them. He was as helpless as a scared virgin, pulling the stuck zipper down in jagged little tugs. Ramsay gripped Theon’s shoulder, nails digging in hard. Shaking, shivering, squirming, Theon pulled down Roose’s pants just enough to see his cock. It was hard and solid. He grasped at it, hoping his hands could do some of the work. It was the lesser of evils, at least.

Ramsay pushed Theon’s head down, holding him by the root of his hair. He pulled hard, making a fist and grunting with pleasure. Theon choked, Roose’s cock filled his mouth and jutted to the start of his soft throat. He panicked, eyes filling with tears, tried to breathe through his nose, and sputtered. By now, he wanted to be home in his pajamas, not in a stranger’s basement with his mouth full of dick. Ramsay laughed heartily, the bass of his voice rattled Theon’s skinny chest. It bounced around his ribcage. He sucked. Through all vile and villainous tastes, he sucked and moved his tongue around the base of Roose’s cock. Anything to get it done, move it fast, and get out of there. Pulling and pushing Theon’s head up and down, Ramsay pumped energetically, watching the facefucking with glee. Snorting and choking like a boar bleeding out, Theon focused his energies on breathing.

Working his lips up and down Theon’s neck, Ramsay kissed behind his ear down to his shoulder blades. “If you think you’ll be done after this, you’re wrong.” He bit sharply; Theon inhaled through his nose in a painful burst. “You won’t be done until I’ll vivisected you and fucked your entrails. You won’t be done until I’ve filled your skull with my cock.”

Somewhere deep inside the taxidermy wolf head, Roose breathed out slightly. His reaction to climax was never showy, never crass. Theon’s mouth filled. His hopes to spit were dashed as Ramsay still held him down with a fierce grip. Hating himself, Theon swallowed. He could not, his throat was too raw and bruised. A bit of vomit came up in his mouth. Theon swallowed again. He failed. Struggling for breath, his mouth half filled with tart vomit, he choked and tried one more time. It went down painfully.

Ramsay pulled Theon’s face closed to his and kissed him. He laughed between pecks, dragging his tongue across Theon’s face. “My sweet, sweet, stupid Theon. The fun has only begun.” He bit Theon’s cheek like an animal torn between attacking and fucking. His messy hands caressed Theon, grabbing bits of him, punching and pinching other parts, always keeping him on edge.

He could not keep his grubby hands from grabbing. Ramsay worked himself up into a frenzy, poking and prodding as Theon stared with blank eyes of horror. His hands were against the seam of his pants, down his thighs, up his neck, across his chest, brushing the hair of his stomach. Laughing, Ramsay’s fingers found Theon’s eyes. Squinting them closed, Theon softly cried to himself. The pressure built. Suddenly, his eyelids felt too thin for comfort. His eyeballs were soft and unprotected.

With one large press, it was done. Theon wailing, grabbing at his face. Something wet and hot spilled from his eye onto his hands. Ramsay pressed his mouth to the wound and kissed, little pecks of paternal love as Roose tidied himself up behind him, taking off the wolf head and placing it on the table. It looked like a ritual alter, the eyes of the dead watching and judging.

As the screams in Theon’s throat started to turn incomprehensible, Ramsay took out his cock, tugging it until it was hard and ready. Roose held Theon by the head this time, like father like son, his grip tight and his balance centered.

With the joy only eye socket fucking could produce, Ramsay worked the head of his cock into the hole he created, staring at the ceiling, his eyes rolling back into his head already. He knew once the fun was over, Roose would bend him over backwards and make him pay for not cleaning the basement. He knew after he came that Theon would cry so loud that he would have a headache all day. But in the moment, he was truly happy. Ramsay Bolton smiled, pumping his hips.

It was a good day.


End file.
